country poetry & more

History Repeats

Robin Hood remains alive and well,
his legacy secure,
still taking money from the rich
to buy votes from the poor.
Without regard for rule of law
or precious common sense,
the end now justifies the means,
at humanity's expense.
The constitution of our land
is trashed by Mr. Hood,
with massive ego-wisdom,
under guise of "public good."
Disdaining moral principles
for which our fathers died,
he has displaced God and decency.
We're on a downhill slide.
Like wolves dressed in sheep's clothing,
his band of merry men
are killing off our freedoms
with a weapon called a pen.
As we worship at the altar
of fortune, beauty, fame,
Friar Tuck has picked our pockets,
and we've only self to blame.

Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com

Money Problems

Money is the root of all evil?
No, that’s not what he said.
Although it may make us poor folks feel righteous,
that misquote can mess up our heads.
It’s the love of money, not just having money,
that causes us humans much pain.
To dream that more riches would cure all our ills
is to flush precious time down the drain.
Are you happier than before you got that last raise?
Well, then, how much would it take?
Appreciation for what you have
puts the icing on the cake.
Have you noticed the lottery winners
whose lives are in total chaos?
Instead of a wonderful blessing,
it becomes an albatross.
Everybody wants a hand-out,
strangers, family and friends,
like a bunch of greedy vultures,
til the bankruptcy lawyer wins.
If your budget is such that too much month
is left at the end of the money,
what makes you think better management skills
would appear like a magic bunny?
It has long been known by wiser folks
that happiness comes not from riches,
but it’s hard to teach reality
to a kid who’s too big for his britches.

Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com

A Matter of Attitude

Limitations are not stop signs,
just lovely short detours.
They lead us on to better things;
the choice is mine or yours.
We can give up, decry the dark,
turn back toward home and quit
or grit our teeth and move ahead
with brighter torches lit.
Each up-hill mile makes muscles strong,
clears vision once impaired,
inspires ambition as we sweat
and makes us glad we dared.
The glory of the bright hilltop
we cannot realize
before the valley dark is crossed
with hopeless, blinded eyes.
Success is getting up again
each time we try and fail
and noticing the flowers
that grow along the trail.

Inspired by Helen Keller


Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com

One of Those Cotton Pickin’ Days
1940s & ‘50s

The smell of new white cotton-sack is a harbinger of fall,
but the work involved today is not my favorite sport of all.
Ma quilts a wider shoulder strap, Dad buckles up the end.
Old jeans have extra padding where the knees are getting thin.
I head out for the trailer with a stiff breeze at my side,
though I’d prefer to face it, the sack to open wide.
Bend over almost double, grab bolls that prick the hands,
and soon the skin is rough and tough and dry just like a man’s.
Five pounds or so of cotton to shake down in a heap
will make a nice soft pillow now if they’d just let me sleep.
Tall careless-weeds sift itchy, sneezy seeds down in my shirt.
My aching back has forced me to go crawling in the dirt.
Now I’ve misjudged the distance, the trailer’s far away,
the sack goes on my shoulder, my back begins to sway.
Hang it up so carefully, pea upon the scale,
trying not to drop it on my toe, to no avail.
Hoist it in the trailer by myself, no one around,
and like as not the contents will wind up upon the ground.
When nighttime rolls around I’ve pulled almost four hundred pounds.
That’s six or seven sack-fulls in six or seven rounds.
My back is almost broken, my knees are sore and red.
Boy, won’t it feel luxurious to spend eight hours in bed!


Chopping Cotton

Boll-pulling in the autumn I considered almost fun,
compared to hoeing cotton in the burning summer sun.
It started early in July when plants were young and bright
and ended at the start of school with no more weeds in sight.
You hope it’s been plowed over for a little less bad news,
but then the soil is powdery and gets inside your shoes.
You try it barefoot for awhile and leap from shade to shade.
If the cotton stalks are tall and thick, why then you’ve got it made.
The rows are long with plenty weeds, the water far away.
You dream of cool refreshment, a snowy winter day.
And then your nose begins to bleed, with naught to stem the flow.
A slick leaf for a handkerchief is not the way to go.
Our own crop clean of ugly weeds, the neighbors need our hoes,
so for awhile we’re paid big bucks to plod between the rows.
Each rain brings up new crops of weeds . Back to the starting gate.
You wouldn’t wish your enemies to such a ghastly fate.
When summer’s long “vacation” is drawing to a close,
we feel no moment of regret as we lay down our hoes.
School means relief from days of toil, a welcome change of pace,
but it’s only weeks til bursting cotton stares us in the face.

Kids at Play

A little over seven years twixt Walt and little Jerry
with three tough tomboys in between made our life very merry,
all close enough in age to play at cowboys, sports or poker
as Walter always took the lead, a carefree, nutty joker.
With Dink I oft played in the dirt with homemade toys of wood,
made roads and fields and mountains, our game plan understood.
On rainy days we girls played house with paper families
cut out from last year's catalogue, our entertainment free.
When playing church we each took turns at preaching, praying, singing,
baptized each other in the tank, lost souls salvation bringing.
We sometimes fought with words or fists but seldom held a grudge,
competed constantly at sports with Walter as the judge.
On Friday nights, the radio brought weekly boxing thrills,
and wearing names of favorites, we honed our fighting skills.
From jacks to games of marbles, we had to try it all,
sloshed in the mud, jumped off the roof and always had a ball.
I loved Red Rover, Pop the Whip and even Kick the Can.
When darkness drove us back inside, the quiet times began:
Monopoly or reading or sawing on the fiddle,
card games to exercise the mind, a joke, perhaps a riddle.
We ate mulberries from the trees in shelter belts so green
and watermelons Boots provided, best you've ever seen.
We played much harder than we worked, stayed busy sun-to-sun.
My whole childhood comes back today in memories of fun.